A Moment Here With You
by Center of the Galaxy
Summary: Sam's not doing too well after the second trial. An unlikely visitor to the bunker might help change that. *Sam and Bobby bonding, spoilers for season 8, sick!Sam, one shot*


_**Author's Note:**_ _This was written for the following prompt over at OhSam: "With the history between Bobby and Sam- Dean being his favorite, RoboSam trying to kill him, 'forget my number' (possessed, I know, but it killed Sam)... I want Bobby to be at the bunker- Sam during trials, during Demon Dean, anytime, really. What I'm after is Bobby being proud of the man Sam has become. That's really all I want. With all the pain and suffering Sam has been through, I want Bobby to see where he is now and convince him that he's a good man and on the 'right' path. Lots of emo Sam bonding with Bobby."_

 _I miss Bobby being on the show. I was so happy when I found this prompt! So, I set this after the second trial so spoilers for that._

* * *

" _I'm living for the only thing I know_

 _I'm running and not quite sure where to go_

 _And I don't know what I'm diving into_

 _Just hanging by a moment here with you."_

— _Lifehouse, "Hanging By A Moment"_

* * *

The cough tears through him, choking out his remaining oxygen. The taste of copper tinges his mouth and he gasps, trying to catch his breath. His eyes water and his vision blurs. He tries to steady his breathing, attempts to get his wildly beating heart under control.

This is happening more and more now, ever since the completion of the second trial. One moment, he'll be upright and functioning and the next, he's passing out, body collapsing on whatever surface is nearby. His own immune system is shutting down, betraying him.

"Sam?"

Dean swims into his vision, but his voice is muffled, like they're both underwater. His older brother places a hand on his back and slowly, they both sink down onto the floor. The cool tile of the bunker floor feels heavenly under his fever-stricken hands. Sam can't remain upright and his brother soon eases him to the ground.

"Easy, easy," Dean soothes, rubbing circles on his back. "It'll pass, Sammy. Just hold on."

They sit there for what might be a small eternity. The grandfather clock ticks solemnly, a grim reminder that they are running out of time. The Trials needed to be finished soon before Crowley found a way to stop them, before they destroyed Sam's body completely.

"M'fine." Sam slurs, blood dribbling down his chin. He wipes it away with the back of his sleeve and swallows the rest of it in his mouth. It sickens him to feel it slide back down his throat, but he won't worry Dean by letting him see it. His brother is already panicked enough what with Kevin missing, with the Trials and Crowley and Abaddon on them.

"No," Dean murmurs, eyes downcast. "You're not, but you will be soon, Sammy."

He helps his little brother off the floor and together, they move to the huge wooden table in the study.

"Dean?" Sam manages to start, but his voice gives out, the coughing overcoming him once more.

"Just stay there, alright?" Dean murmurs. "I'm going to get you some Ibuprofen and make you some food," Seeing his brother's raised eyebrow, he quickly tacks on, "Which you will eat Sam, because you've eaten nothing but a piece of toast in two days."

Sam thinks of protesting, but decides it's not worth the effort and just whispers, "Yeah, okay."

Dean moves to the kitchen and Sam can hear the familiar boom of the fridge opening and then closing. A few moments later, there is the sizzling of bacon in the other room. The smell wafts into the room and the youngest Winchester's stomach begins to sour, nausea running through his system.

Sam, for his part, just tries to control his breathing, tries to make his lungs work in somewhat a normal fashion. Still, his heart is burning and oxygen is scarce. The room starts to spin and he wonders if he's going to pass out right here, face planting onto the table. His eyes begin to droop close and he sighs, giving into the inevitable.

"What the hell have you gotten yourself into?" A familiar voice drawls and Sam stiffens. Footsteps echo in the room, familiar footfalls he's known since childhood, from countless visits to the salvage yard.

"This can't be." Sam manages to mutter, pushing himself up from the table. "You're—"He turns his head to where the voice came from and then blinks, trying to clear his vision.

"Dead?" Bobby chuckles, coming to sit at the table. "Now, c'mon, Sam, is that really the only thing that's got you worried?" He smirks, the same self-assured smirk that Dean learned from him. He looks good for a dead guy—no pallor in his complexion, bright eyes, and an aura of peace.

"Bobby?" He whispers, confused, unsure if what he's seeing is real or is nothing more than a fever induced hallucination.

"Hey, kid." Bobby smiles softly and he comes to sit down next to the youngest Winchester. He smells like Old Spice and whiskey, scents of his childhood, of being in Bobby's arms when he was a little kid, after being dropped off and watching his brother and father drive off into the distance to finish what he thought, at the time, was a business trip. Bobby would hold him while he would cry, soothe him in a gruff voice and somehow, Sam would be okay.

"Bobby?" He murmurs again, pinching himself.

"I'm here, Sam." Bobby replies, seeing the gesture. He leans forward in his chair and places his warm hand—not cold, like at the hospital, not clammy—on Sam's wrist, rubbing those familiar circles he used to rub when Sam had been a child.

"But . . ." He swallows, and then winces. "How?"

"Official line?" Bobby smirks, coaxing a grin from Sam's tired lips. He gestures around the room. "This is all a fever induced hallucination."

"That would make sense." Sam mumbles, smiling. He feels like he can actually breathe for the first time since the second trial now. Bobby's presence is grounding, offering him strength and hope. The youngest Winchester had almost forgotten how easily Bobby could make impossible tasks seem like nothing huge.

"Sam." Bobby meets his gaze; his expression growing somber. "What's going on?"

"I'm okay—" He begins to say, only for Bobby to interject.

"Bullshit." Then, softer, "Sam, don't lie to me, son."

There's silence after that. Bacon sizzles in the pan in the other room. Bobby just observes him. His gaze scans over Sam's sickly figure and he frowns, shaking his head.

"I'm hanging in there." Sam finally admits. "The Trials . . ." He grimaces. "They're kicking my ass, Bobby."

"Yeah, I can see that." His surrogate father figure replies. "Sam?"

"Yeah?" He tries to take a breath in, but a cough tears through him, eyes watering, lungs burning and black spots begin to fill his vision.

"You're okay." Bobby's voice is suddenly by his ear and his hand is on his back, increasing the oxygen flow and if Sam closes his eyes, he can almost imagine that Bobby is really here and that he's sick with a cold and not pretty much dying from a supernatural illness. The coughing soon subsides and he can breathe again. Bobby's face swims into his eyesight and Sam manages a rare grin.

"I'm fine." Sam tells him softly. "Bobby, it's good to see you."

"You too, Sam." Bobby beams and he takes a seat in the chair across from Sam. "I wanted to say thank you." At Sam's raised eyebrow, he adds, "For what you did for me. Rescuing me from Hell, that couldn't have been easy for you."

"It was nothing." Sam murmurs.

"No, it wasn't nothing." Bobby snaps. "It was Hell, the place you suffered in for who the fuck knows how long." He leans forward, forcing the youngest Winchester to meet his gaze. "Not to mention the fact that you were sick on top of it."

"Bobby—" He's not used to hearing this kind of praise from anyone, let alone Bobby. He's screwed Bobby over so many times before. It's no secret that Dean's always been Bobby's favorite, his true son. And what did Sam do for Bobby? Tried to kill him a few times? Yeah, that was great.

"No, no, don't do that." Bobby interjects, scooting his chair closer to Sam's side. "I can see those wheels spinning in your head."

"I'm not—" He lies half-heartedly.

"Sam." Bobby's voice is stern, commanding. It reminds him of nights studying lore for too late into the nights, of attacking salvage cars because he couldn't handle the frustration he felt when dealing with John, but most of all, it reminds him of sunrises sitting on Bobby's porch with the gruff hunter just offering a few words of support.

"I just . . ." He chuckles wetly, not sure of what to say or how to express the inner turmoil he's feeling right now. He knows he doesn't deserve seeing Bobby right now, after all the things he's done. If anyone, Dean should be with Bobby, should be enjoying this time instead of Sam. "Bobby, the things I've done to you—"

The gruff hunter sighs, drawn out.

"Sam." Bobby starts, voice sharp. "Listen to me."

The youngest Winchester tries to look away, but Bobby grabs his hand and squeezes it tightly, snapping the little brother back to attention.

"Bobby, I—"

"Just listen." Bobby says softly, a tiny grin turning up his lips. "I'm about to say something I should've said a long time ago."

Heat burns Sam's cheeks, but whether that's for anticipation or the fever, he's not exactly sure. Bobby's never been the touchy-feely type—he and Dean have that in common—and he's never been the one to express himself through words, rather than his actions.

"Bobby, you don't have to—" Sam glances down, embarrassed.

"No, I do." Bobby insists. "Listen to me Sam, I know, you and I, we've had our moments."

His soulless self trying to kill Bobby comes to mind. That was one thing he'd never really been able to get over. He knew, in hindsight, it hadn't been his fault, but it had been a part of him that had attacked Bobby, that had tried to kill him. And once Bobby had died, that guilt had always been there, flaring up in the silence of the early mornings and the evenings.

Sam had never really forgiven himself for what he'd done to Bobby.

"You need to forgive yourself, Sam." Bobby confessed softly, smiling. "For what you've done, what I've done—none of it matters anymore, you hear me?"

Shakily, he nods his head and Bobby laughs wetly, his own eyes sparkling.

"Jesus, Bobby." He murmurs, voice breaking, wiping an errant tear away.

"You are a good man, Sam." The older hunter plows on. "What you're doing right now, it's more than you should have to bear. After Hell, after everything, here you are again, trying to save the world again."

This confession is so unlike him, so different than the Bobby he knew in life. Yet, hearing the words, finally having that confirmation that yes, Bobby does care and he always did and maybe they had their problems, but now, it doesn't matter. And maybe, maybe there's still a chance for forgiveness after all.

"Bobby, for what I did to you—" Sam starts, but Bobby quickly interjects,

"Sam, I forgive you."

Sam's eyes widen; his heart skips a beat.

"You . . . do?" He echoes.

"Of course I do, ya idjit!" Bobby chides sharply, rolling his eyes. "You've just got to forgive yourself." He squeezes Sam's hand once more, grounding him. "Sam, you've got too much going on to let this hurt you anymore. You've got my forgiveness and you know what?"

He waits for Sam to meet his gaze.

"What?"

"I'm damn proud of you."

Sam opens his mouth to speak, to express something about the overwhelming sense of relief that is coursing through his veins, but nothing comes out. He blinks a few times, tears blurring his vision. A sob works his way out of his lips and before he knows it, Sam is enveloped in Bobby's arms.

Hugs are a rare form of expression in this lifestyle. They are viewed upon as a weakness, an expression of sentiment that isn't needed unless you've barely survived a hunt.

But in this moment, finally hearing the words he's been chasing for so long, he can't help but allow himself to give into the tears and the soul-crushing relief.

Bobby forgives him.

Bobby is proud of him.

"You're going to be okay, Sam." Bobby assures him when he breaks off the hug. "I promise." He rises from the chair and shoots Sam one more smile before seemingly fading into thin air.

"Hey." Dean steps into the room, frowning at Sam's bright red cheeks. He places the plate of food down and the bottle of pills and places a cool hand against his baby brother's forehead. "Your fever spiked. You're burning up."

Sam wonders if he should say anything about Bobby. He wants to tell his brother everything, but he has a feeling that if he shares that information now, his brother will simply dismiss it as the ramblings of a fevered brother. No, it's best to hang onto it for now; save it for a moment that Dean really needs some encouragement.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?" His older brother is fumbling with the pills, trying to work out the correct dosage to give to combat a supernaturally induced fever.

"I'm going to be okay." He assures his brother with a shaky smile. "You know that, right?"

Dean rewards him with a dazzling grin.

"Of course I do Sammy." He pushes the plate of food and the pills towards him. "Now, eat up and take your medicine."

And for what might be the first time since this whole ordeal began, Sam laughs.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I love Bobby and Sam bonding! I hope you did too. Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


End file.
